


Let's Make Out (For Science)

by thelilnan



Category: Insidious (Movies)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Making Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 14:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13483515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelilnan/pseuds/thelilnan
Summary: Specs and Tucker make out (for science)-For my Saw Squad. Hastily written in the dead of night.





	Let's Make Out (For Science)

Tucker was bored. But that was nothing new.

Specs was entirely engrossed in what could only be called “pointless pedanticism,” and Tucker was bored. He was so fucking bored. They’d been scoping out an abandoned house for the better part of the afternoon and now the sun was starting to set, casting lazy, golden rays through half-shuttered and barely transparent windows. Tucker had already taken as many readings with as many instruments as he possibly could and everything was turning up lukewarm. Not cold, mind, but with just enough hintings of a haunting that Specs insisted something was there; that they had to keep looking.

So Specs kept himself busy with diligent note-taking and Tucker was B. O. R. E. D.

Clearly nothing was going to move the younger man until they found something concrete (or what passes for “concrete” for Spectral Sightings). This could very well take all night and Tucker had no intentions of staying in this boring, dusty, musty old colonial a minute more than he absolutely had to, thank you very much.

His perpetually lazy and often ire-filled eyes followed Specs’ back as he paced the living room for the hundredth time, scribbling blindly on his Moleskine sketchbook (he claimed this helped in some inane way Tucker couldn’t fathom). Tucker’s arms sat squarely across his chest, the nails of one hand digging into the bicep of its opposite. His leg jostled restlessly and his teeth grit tighter together as boredom turned to frustration and eventually anger. Specs said nothing, just scribbling and pacing as if it fucking did _anything._ Tucker thought he might scream if he didn’t stop that fucking pacing, stop that stupid _fucking_ scribbling, stop pretending he was a goddamn psychic like Elise (she didn’t come tonight; she had _plans_ ).

Before he launched himself at the other man out of pure spite, Tucker spat out the driest, most overtly sardonic suggestion he could think of, if only to derail the other man’s otherwise unstoppable train of thought, “What if we made out?”

Credit where it’s due, Specs stopped in his tracks and stared at Tucker, ears already flushing bright scarlet.

“ _What?_ ”

Tucker shrugged, committing to his charade, “Emotional energy or whatever. Ghosts are drawn to that shit.”

Specs sputtered to himself, shaking his head and waving his hands—sketchbook, crayon and all, in effort to retort. But he couldn’t. Tucker was winning. He just had to keep pressing until Specs got so uncomfortable that he called the investigation off. Tucker didn’t claim to be clairvoyant like _some people_ but he could predict that in 45 minutes’ time, he’d be on the couch back home, pants off, and chilling way the fuck out to whatever horror garbage was streaming on Netflix.

“Nothing else’s been working,” Tucker supplied again, interrupting Specs’ horrified and mortified grumbling.

“It’s _ridiculous_ _._ ”

“Says you.”

“Says everyone!”

“Pussy.”

“Don’t call me a pussy!”

“Then stop being one and kiss me.”

“I’m not _fucking_ kissing you!!”

Gold star for Tucker, he managed to get Specs to swear. Not only that but he was nearly purple, he was blushing so hard. Tucker wondered if someone could faint from blushing too much. It seemed so Southern Belle but, honestly, it fit Specs like a finely laced glove. No matter what, Tucker considered this battle won.

He smirked and, hand to God, Specs very nearly threw his sketchbook at him. But he didn’t. Instead, he gripped it that much tighter, the pages crinkling under the pressure of his fists, his normally bright brown eyes locked onto a spot on the floor just an inch from Tucker’s feet. This surprised Tucker. Normally, Specs would storm out or otherwise attempt to seize control of the situation with a poorly worded quip but not so now. Now he was quiet. And that worried Tucker.

“Fine.”

Tucker’s eyebrows shot up, nearly disappearing under his bangs. He desperately needed a haircut but refused, for whatever reason, to get one.

“The science is there,” Specs continued, though not without an embarrassingly dramatic voice break. His cheeks were still bright red, “Hormonal reactions can generate certain energy that spirits are drawn to. We’re probably going to get better readings with that.”

For once, Tucker had no retort.

He didn’t think Specs would actually agree to it. It was ridiculous, just like Specs said. But there he was, eyes downcast in embarrassment and taking a seat next to Tucker on the musty, likely bug-filled sofa that had long since been forgotten by anyone living, and Tucker couldn’t speak. His eyes were the size of dinner plates, looking more alert and attentive than Specs had ever seen—or would have seen if he dared make eye contact with the other man. Instead, he just scooted closer so that their thighs were barely touching and took a sobering breath. This was happening. Tucker’s brain was screaming.

But then there was Specs, flushed and embarrassed, with his beautiful, bright eyes now closed, lips slightly pouting and chin tilted up… God, he was really going for this, wasn’t he.

Wasn’t he?

It suddenly occurred to Tucker then that Specs could be playing him just as much as he had been playing Specs. What if he tried to kiss him? Then Specs would win and Tucker would look like an ass. Fuck, he’d never live that down. But still, the way Specs was leaning into his space, his eyebrows starting to furrow like he was just about to break...

_Fuck me for being such a softie._

He kissed Specs.

It was going to be a simple peck, honestly. He’d fully intended on such as soon as his lips touched Specs’. But then the little idiot had to kiss back and his mouth had to open under Tucker’s _just so_ and that was it. Game fucking over.

And then suddenly his hands, which had been in his lap and were supposed to _stay there_ , strayed. One settled over the top of Specs’ hands—which were clenched so tightly on top of the man’s knees that Tucker was sure something was about to pop—while the other braced Tucker’s weight on the musty, dusty sofa so he could lean that much more into the kiss. Specs must’ve been surprised, as he gasped against Tucker’s mouth and Tucker, for reasons that escaped him entirely, deepened the kiss. Then his tongue was in Specs’ mouth and he could _feel_ Specs’ startled but pleasured moan, and fuck if that didn’t make him moan right back.

Everything in him was screaming to get Specs horizontal on that disgusting, stained, musty, dusty sofa, even if Specs protested at the dirt and grime. Fuck it, he’d drag him back to the van if he had to, he just needed to kiss, touch, and explore the little spaz and see if he could get him to make those sounds again, whatever it took.

That proved pretty easy, as Specs was definitely the vocal type. It made sense; the asshole never shut up anyway, why would this be any different? Everything Tucker did—every little lick, nibble, and peck—provoked some new and indulgent sound from Specs. The younger man was kissing back as much as he could manage while hindered by shock and arousal and his hands—as Tucker could feel them trapped under his own—were twitching to move off their spot on Specs’ knees. Mercifully, Tucker let them, moving his hand away just enough to set them free. Specs’ hands then immediately flew up to Tucker’s hair, wild and weird and curling at the ends from not being cut in so long, and _pulled._

Tucker groaned.

They were getting sloppy. They weren’t thinking. They were falling back, or more precisely, Specs was, and Tucker was getting exactly what he’d wanted. Any second they’d break, hurriedly pull buttons open and shirts off, fling Specs’ glasses to the side, and let lust take over, until—

A book flew off the shelves.

Specs screamed and pulled Tucker’s hair, though this time out of fright rather than arousal. Tucker yelled too, gripping the disgusting, dirty, musty, dusty couch’s faded upholstery and feeling decades of grime cake his fingertips.

Another book collided with the far wall.

Wasting no time, the two paranormal investigators collected as much of their equipment as they could and bolted from the house, pale and shaking in the late evening sun. It was almost gone now, hindering their aim as they threw their equipment into their van, but they would deal with damages later. For now, Tucker grabbed his keys and jammed them into the ignition with more force than was strictly necessary and sped off down the road as fast as their hunk of junk van would take them.

Specs was shaking like a leaf in the passenger seat. Tucker’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel.

It was a long time before either of them said a word. And what could they even say? _I’m glad we got to make out because that was super hot; too bad that ghost was homophobic, huh? Anyway, wanna do that again after we’ve both vomited from fear at the next rest stop?_

Not that that wouldn’t work.

“You wanna watch something on Netflix when we get home?” Tucker eventually broke the silence as they turned onto the exit that would lead back to Specs’ townhouse. Specs nodded before confirming verbally. It was little more than a broken squeak.

They both silently agreed that they would steer clear of the horror section tonight. Just because.

 

End.


End file.
